


Beignet De La Terre

by Glacial_guillotine



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, French Bakeries, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Steve Rogers Has PTSD, Steve Rogers whump, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Whump, steve rogers - Freeform, tony stark - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-02-26 17:20:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21612031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glacial_guillotine/pseuds/Glacial_guillotine
Summary: He sighs, looking around him at the other park goers. There's a boy chasing his dog, a mother pushing her baby in one of those stroller contraptions. He takes a mental snapshot of these moments, to ground himself. Replace bad memories with the good, just like Nat taught him to do.They pack up, eventually. The cranberry juice fits next to the bread, and they roll up the blanket and place it in the old fashioned wicker basket."There's this beautiful cafe around the corner." Tony catches Steve's free hand in his own, and they weave through the crowded streets. "It's right next to a flower shop, Beignet De La Terre."He lets himself be lead, observing the way the buildings rise high above Tony and him. It's breezy, and the wicker basket bumps against his skin. The sun is beginning to go down, and orange shadows drape the brick walls and concrete.---France is beautiful, Steve decides. Steve thinks he is safe, in 2019. However, something ruins their day together. Tony has to put him back together again.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 4
Kudos: 96





	Beignet De La Terre

**Author's Note:**

> I do not speak French.  
> -  
> Kind of an AU, kind of not.  
> -  
> Warnings: 
> 
> Mentions of homophobia, from outside sources as well as internalized. Please stay safe. If anyone ever needs to talk to someone, I am always here.

It was a gorgeous day. The sun shone bright, gracing the planes of his face with golden warmth. His thin t-shirt billowed in tandem with the trees, wind swirling around air that had been stagnant for so many months.

He loved spring.

In many ways more than one, spring felt new. And clean. He felt like pure love when he was outside in the spring sun.

He thinks that everyone must feel the rebirth of the season, and this shows its truth in the decrease of crime. Baddies enjoying the weather right alongside him.

So he and Tony have dates. They fly to Milan and walk down the cobbled streets, catch a train to France and tour the louvre. Steve draws the flowers and architecture of these cities, with Tony sitting against a tree across from him.

He sets his sketchbook down on the patterned blanket next to him, and stretches his arms behind him. His head tilts back to the sky.

He hears Tony chuckle, ice clinking against the glass in his hand.

"What?" He closes his eyes, a dopey smile crossing his face, almost against his will.

"I've just never seen you like this Cap. Need to do this more often."

It's funny, because Steve agrees. It's been work, work, work, for years, and it hadn't ever really crossed his mind to travel for fun. He'd seen France during the war, sure, Germany too. But those memories were covered in soot and blood and-

He sighs, looking around him at the other park goers. There's a boy chasing his dog, a mother pushing her baby in one of those stroller contraptions. He takes a mental snapshot of these moments, to ground himself. Replace bad memories with the good, just like Nat taught him to do.

They pack up, eventually. The cranberry juice fits next to the bread, and they roll up the blanket and place it in the old fashioned wicker basket.

"There's this beautiful cafe around the corner." Tony catches Steve's free hand in his own, and they weave through the crowded streets. "It's right next to a flower shop, Beignet De La Terre."

He lets himself be lead, observing the way the buildings rise high above Tony and him. It's breezy, and the wicker basket bumps against his skin. The sun is beginning to go down, and orange shadows drape the brick walls and concrete.

They make it to the coffee shop, and Steve has to agree, it's beautiful. It's on the small side, a white door that barely lets him fit through is adorned on either side with vines and hanging flower pots. There are little chairs and tables on the outside, and fairy lights are draped from the top of the pergola.

They decide to sit inside, which Tony says is because of 'all the crazies that come out at night'. Steve doesn't necessarily want to observe the drunken parties exiting for the night, and he assumed Tony knows what he's talking about. He was the travel seasoned one.

They enter, and there are plants for sale on one side, and a counter with tables and chairs on the other. Steve whispers his order to Tony, trying to ignore the shiver that goes down Tony's spine, and heads over to observe the ferns.

In a few minutes, he feels a tap on his shoulder, and spins to find a black coffee in front of him. He takes it gently, relishing in the warmth, and he presses a quick kiss to Tony's cheek, dragging a hand down his arm as he heads to the booths. Tony follows, eyes smiling and head hanging with a blush.

They've just sat down when a figure appears behind Tony. Steve is half way between taking the first tentative sip of his coffee, but the expression on the mans face startles him and he inhales too much.

His mouth is burned, and he knows that it'll heal in less than a minute, but goddamn, that hurts.

Tony flips in his seat, and sees the scowl marring the guys face.

"Can we help you with something?" Tony's suave answer would make anyone uncomfortable, but he presses on.

"Tu es étranger?" You are foreign?

"Oui." Steve pipes up, leaning his forearms on the table. Maybe he just had a question about America. Steve was Captain America, after all.

The man comes around to the side of the table, steely blue eyes bearing into Steve's.

"Nous ne soutenons pas les gais ici." We do not support gays here. He spits, "Nous n'avons pas besoin de votre genre dans ce pays." We don't need your kind in this country.

His French, it isn't great. It's been a while since he'd studied it, but by the way Tony's eyes are set ablaze, he figures he translated it right.

Steve feels like he's just been kicked in the stomach.

"Tu es méprisable." You are despicable. Tony's chair scrapes harshly against the wooden floors, and Steve flinches. He wants to tell Tony to wait, that maybe the man is right, not everyone should have to support the kind of lifestyle they have—

There are voices, fighting, a mix of French and English, vile words and slurs thrown from the mans mouth. Steve is in a haze, muted colors and faces swirling around him. He says Tony's name softly, trying to get his attention away from the fight that's seconds away from erupting, and when he doesn't respond, he waits.

"Hey, we're getting out of here." His gaze meets Tony, and he can almost see the tension on his face being replaced with worry. He's fine, really, he just wants to-

He doesn't know what he wants to do. Go home, maybe, climb the steep stairs up to his apartment, and wrap his mom's quilt around his shoulders like he used to do when he was little. But that apartment doesn't exist anymore, none of it does.

Tony is pulling on his arm, leading them through the now crowded coffee shop, and he discreetly worms his arm away from him. Tony's flipping the man off, and finally, they're outside in the cool air. Steve starts walking, one foot in front of the other, Tony's voice trailing behind him.

Time skips, and suddenly, his back is against a brick wall in a dimly lit alleyway, sharp rock digging into his skin. He stares wide eyed at Tony, lights from the street illuminating the shine in his eyes.

His boyfriend sits next to him, running a quick hand through his brown hair.

"God, that was... that was effed up."

Steve nods, hair falling into his eyes. The smell of the alley overwhelms him, garbage and something else he doesn't want to think about.

"I'm sorry-" Steve begins, voice strangely devoid of emotion.

"Don't," Tony interrupts, "It wasn't your fault."

But maybe it was. He kissed Tony, he touched him like that, in public, no wonder they were disgusted. How could he forget that it wasn't okay? Wasn't alright, to be with a man?

Horrible.

More memories fill his mind. Memories of bar fights and strange looks and even his own mother, asking about girlfriends and dancing. Hisses of men in the streets, inviting him to come behind a dumpster and, him, following them with a cautious look behind his shoulder.

Until Bucky came along and changed everything. Chaste, hidden kisses in tents until a man, no older than he, was shot in the neck by a commanding officer for messing around with another soldier during training.

Tony snakes his hand into Steve's, trying to provide him with the comfort so desperately wanted, but he's jerking away so fast he almost gets whip lash.

Corrupt.

"Don't touch me, not- not here." Steve pants, holding an arm out in warning. He's breathing hard, and he knows he's hurting Tony, but he can't.

"Okay." Tony stills, a shaky silence that he hates filling the air.

It's too much. Apologies wait on his lips, but he knows that if he speaks, the things he's trying to keep inside will spill out like a waterfall of blood and hurt, drowning them both.

There's a car horn that goes off, startling them both, and his eyes search the entry of the alleyway for the man. Or a horde of them, coming to drive their point home into his heart. Maybe with a knife instead of words, this time.

He jumps yet again, when a cat comes darting out from behind a box.

Damaged.

"Shit, Steve, what happened?" Tony observes the way his hands shake as he crosses his arms, gripping his shoulders. Steve- Steve doesn't act this way. Ever.

All he's ever seen is the Steve that's as strong as marble.

Tony starts, "That man was an ass, don't-"

"I can-" his breath rushes out of him all once, "I can't t- I can't-" he's swinging his head back and forth, chest heaving with the effort of taking in air.

Tony sits up onto his knees, holding onto the sides of Steve's flushed temples with renewed vigor. "It's okay, Steve, you're okay-"

He's spiraling, the ground below him turning to mud, laden with bullet shells, that sticks to his hair and his clothes. His lids flutter, eyes searching the alley in fear.

Hot tears stream down his face, and Tony can't help but notice how full of terror his eyes are.

"We're going to get caught," Steve chokes, dragging nails in the dirt below him. "They, they'll find out, they'll kill us, Tony, I've seen 'em do it before, oh my god!"

It's full out panic. Dizzy spots appear in his vision, and he swears he feels himself tilting, a shot through his brain.

Phantom fingers are running through his hair, tugging viciously, and they make him gasp and pull his head under his arms.

The change in movement crushes his lungs, it feels like, and he coughs, breath stuck in his throat.

"It's okay, Steve, no one is here but us." Tony is terrified, his own heart beat loud and demanding in his ears, but he manages to keep his voice placating.

Blue eyes sparkle as Steve looks up from his lap. "That- that wont' stop it. " He huffs, shaking so hard Tony thinks his heart is going to stop right then and there.

"Stop what?" A whisper.

"The hate," He pants shallowly into his knees, "The hate speech, the looks we get...god, the shootings!" A rising crescendo, and then a sob so full of heartache and pain, "It won't stop."

Tony pulls his trembling frame into his lap, Steve reaching up to wrap his arms around his shoulders and grip his shirt in tight fists. The dam breaks, and he sobs, loud and hurt, tears freely flowing down his jaw and into his hair.

Tony had never seen him like this, and it scares him to his very core of being. Steve's ragged, quick breaths suggest panic, and strong arms are trembling so hard around him, he can't believe what is happening.

"Shh, shhh, babe. It will be okay." He feels hesitant fingers pull at the hair at the nape of his neck. Tony finds Steve's hand and holds on like a lifeline. "You aren't there anymore."

They're tangled together, bodies interwoven as close as atoms. Hot, breathy air hits his neck, and he can finally tell that Steve is calming, the fleeting adrenaline sucking the energy out of his panic attack. Oppressive energy, the alley full of heavy air.

Steve lets his head fall on Tony's shoulder, exhausted. He swipes at his cheeks almost angrily, or he would have, if he had had any more energy left.

"I keep thinking it's...it's just, a period of calm." His voice breaking.

Tony stills, listening to the man laying his heart out in front of him.

"That, one day, people will realize what they allowed to happen and that they'll take it away," Steve has to work hard to keep the tears at bay, "and I can't do that."

Tony kisses his blonde hair, and dips his nose into his cheek. "I know you might not believe me, Rogers, but people really are different these days."

"I know. I know, but some of the things they say," He shakes his head, "Too similar, you know?"

Tony just nods, pulling his jacket around Steve and raising them to their feet.

"Let's go home, yeah?" Tony walks them out into the light of the street and they walk, silent, down the sidewalk with the basket clasped between them.

Steve, he was going to be okay. There will always be people who don't support him. However, over the course of time, Tony knows in his heart that love will prevail, and that Steven Grant Rogers will find the peace he so deserves.

Tony knows he will show him that, if it's the last thing he does on God's green earth.

**Author's Note:**

> No ending because who invented endings anyway? The government, that's who. 
> 
> Thanks!


End file.
